The Towers of Babylon

by Michelle Kaeser

  No way could a structure like that exist in Toronto. This society doesn’t trust its citizens with towers like this and edges like this. Even the bridges need suicide barriers.

  But here … what’s this? A detail Baby Bourque omitted. Or maybe didn’t know. Yannick reads, with effort, that the rundown minaret now featured on his 250 Iraqi dinar banknote was once so imposing, so impressive, so majestic, that in the Middle Ages, pilgrimming Europeans skulking around the region mistook it for the Tower of Babel. Figuring they were close enough to ancient Babylon, they just assumed, the way believers do, that they’d stumbled upon a biblical artefact.

  Of the biblical stories Yannick knows, which have floated in from the cultural ether, he likes the story of Babel best. A nice fuck you to God. A story about humans waging war on God, by storming heaven. Up they go, ready to trample all over heaven, to destroy the very idea of it. And if God hadn’t changed the rules halfway through the battle, they might have won too. They’d have gotten their chance to plunder, strip the place for all it is worth. The sack of heaven! That’s what the story of Babel should be.

  11

  IT’S HOT ON the kitchen floor, in front of the oven, where Yannick has laid himself out on his stomach while he waits for a frozen pizza to bake. He’s so tired, on the verge of slipping into sleep. But he wants that pizza.

  He opens the oven door to check on the progress with his one open eye. The pepperoni looks thawed enough to eat. He tries to pick off a few pieces of meat, but burns his forearm on the door. Dammit! He blasts backwards a foot and sits crumpled against the island. While he’s blowing on the burn, the clear creak of an upstairs door disrupts the quiet of the house.

  Uh-oh.

  Karen? Gotten up to yell at him? Oh god, not now. Not when he’s drunk and hungry. Or worse, Adele? Who can’t sleep because one or another environmental factor in the house isn’t meeting her very specific needs? But it’s the kid who appears on the far side of the kitchen, clinging shyly to the wall, as if to hide herself from Yannick, this late-night version of her father whom she doesn’t completely recognize.

  “Yvie,” he whispers. “Hey kiddo. What are you doing up?”

  She clasps her stuffed turtle tight to her chest. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come here, kiddo.”

  Sensing that she’s not about to be scolded for this transgression, she grows bolder, picks up steam, bowling across the kitchen floor, in her prized whale socks, and, maybe because she’s clumsy with sleep, or maybe because she was just due for it, she loses her footing, trips over her own feet, and … oh no, oh shit … launches headfirst into the edge of the open oven door.

  “Oh. Oh oh oh,” he says.

  She sits up, shocked into silence by the blow.

  “You’re okay,” he says. “You’re totally okay.”

  But her heavy silence lasts just long enough for a thin stream of blood to trickle down her forehead. Then she wails.

  He swoops her up and into the bathroom (“main floor powder room” in Karen-speak), where he sets her on the toilet and shuts the door so her screams won’t wake the rest of the house.

  He presses a towel to the gash. “Ssshhh, kiddo, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he says until her crying lowers to more of a whimpering.

  “I’m gonna take a look at it, okay?” he says.

  “No.”

  “Yeah. Just a quick peek. You’re brave.”

  “I’m brave,” she says doubtfully, ready to resume the wailing.

  Yannick pulls back the towel and checks the wound. Not so bad—maybe an inch and a half across—but it’s hard to know for sure, because he’s drunk and her forehead is whirling.

  “We’ll put a little bandage on it, okay?”

  “A whale bandage?”

  “Okay.”

  Good. It can’t be so bad if she’s making aesthetic demands. He grabs the whale-shaped bandages from the medicine cabinet, but they’re too small to cover the wound. He’ll have to triple up. He plasters three across her forehead; she looks ridiculous.

  “Okiedoke.”

  “I’m fixed?”

  “You’re all fixed, kiddo.”

  She touches the bandages to check. “Daddy?”

  “Yes, Yvie.”

  “Daddy?”

  “What is it, Yvie?”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  She swallows, her eyes turn huge. “I’m scared of getting bap-sized.”

  “Why, kiddo?”

  “Joly says they’ll dunk my whole head in water. What if they drown-ded me? At the pool, I can’t hold my breath so long.” She takes in a big breath and holds it for as long as she can—one, two, three seconds—then lets the air collapse out of her lungs.

  Poor kid, it must have been gnawing at her for days. He continues to be surprised that this tiny child in front of him has a whole world of private fears.

  “No one’s gonna dunk your head, kiddo. It’ll just be a trickle of water. You won’t have to hold your breath at all.”

  “But why do they have to do that?”

  “To welcome you to the religion, I guess.”

  “But why?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  She stares at him, her eyes still stretched wide open—expectant.

  “Your mom did the same thing, you know. And your Nonna.”

  “But not you?”

  “No. Not me.”

  “But then why do I have to? Why can’t I be like you?”

  She squeezes her turtle tight and her face takes on a thoughtful pout—an expression he recognizes as Karen’s. The kid looks just like Karen, but for the grey eyes. She inherited all of Karen’s features, her olive skin, her sandy hair. But the kid’s personality, her temperament, these she gets from Yannick. She’s obedient by nature. A people-pleaser. A conformist. Despite Karen’s efforts to groom the kid for some position of global authority, she won’t make a leader out of her. She’s a born follower. “You are like me, kiddo.”

  Her pout breaks into a tentative smile. “I am?”

  “Sure you are. And sometimes, you and me … we have to do things we don’t really like to make other people happy.”

  “Oh.”

  His words hang in the air between them. Might this be his worst-ever parenting moment? Yvie seems to be wondering the same thing. The pout has returned.

  “Let’s get you to bed, Yvie,” he says, hoping to erase this failed attempt at advice. “It’s late.”

  After tucking her in under her sea creatures bed sheets, he returns to the kitchen to find the pizza has undergone rapid progress. It’s burnt black at the edges, the cheese dark brown. But he eats the whole thing anyway.

  He should quit drinking. He will. Definitely. He definitely will. Soon. When he’s forty. That’s when he’ll cut way back.

  12

  “BOOM!” SAYS YVIE over breakfast the next morning. “Crash!”

  Her recounting of the late night adventure is limited mostly to sound effects. But her audience listens rapt nonetheless. Adele and Joe lean in with wide eyes and well-timed gasps. Karen, meanwhile, fusses with the bandage on the kid’s head. The bandage that is now a tidy white strip of sterilized gauze held in place with small, neat bits of adhesive tape, which Yvie does not approve of, instead of with the whale-shaped bandages (one of which, by the way, was upside down).

  “We should maybe change that bandage again,” Karen says, glowering at Yannick, like this accident was his fault, like he cut the kid’s forehead himself, on purpose, just to ruin the baptism pictures.

  “You go do that,” says Adele. “Yannick and I can clear up here. Don’t worry about a thing.” She starts to clear breakfast plates, hobbling as she goes about it (her knee’s been acting up today), and loads them into the dishwasher.

  “Oh, uh … just leave the dishe
s in the sink, Adele,” says Yannick.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “The dishwasher’s broken.”

  Karen sighs, it’s a quiet sigh, but one that moves with great speed and targeted precision, straight across the island, where it hits Yannick and delivers its message: he’s disappointing her.

  But Yannick did call the dishwasher guy—the guy just hasn’t shown up yet.

  “Oh. Oh is it?” says Adele. “Wasn’t it broken last time we were here? Is it still broken? Or did it break again? Maybe you should try a different brand. Joe and I got a Miele a few years ago. Top of the line.”

  Yannick knows they have a Miele, because he paid for that Miele. He paid for their entire fucking kitchen when Adele decided to redo it a few years ago. It was a Christmas gift, an extravagant one, but Adele seems to have already forgotten this largesse.

  “Just leave the dishes. Joly’ll wash them later. Where is Joly anyway?” says Yannick.

  “She went swimming,” says Karen.

  “Already?”

  “You do know it’s almost nine, right? You got up late today, remember?”

  “Bang! Clunk!” Yvie, annoyed to have lost her position as fulcrum of the conversation, whips her arms around in accompaniment to her renewed narration. Everyone’s eyes pivot back to the wounded patient.

  “You must have been terrified, Yvie,” says Adele.

  “Nope!”

  “No?”

  “I’m real brave.”

  Adele squishes the kid into a hug and laughs. But this laughter evaporates as soon as she remembers her devout interest in dramatics. “You know something, Karen, she could have a concussion.”

  “She’s fine, Adele. Everyone’s fine,” says Joe.

  Karen peers under the big white bandage, then passes her thumbs over its edges and strokes the kid’s head. “But how’s she going to get baptized with this thing on her forehead? It probably shouldn’t get wet.”

  “I’m sure she can withstand a sprinkle,” says Adele. “Father Thomas can work around it. Bless the top of her head.”

  “Maybe I should call him.”

  The absurd logistics of a baptism are outside Yannick’s purview. He can’t follow this conversation anymore anyway—his head aches, his eyes too. He dumps his own bowl into the sink and returns upstairs, to the bedroom, where he can take a couple of Tylenols and maybe lie down for a few minutes before someone comes to ask something of him, or before his phone rings, or before he gets called back into the office.

  EIGHT MINUTES. That’s how long he gets. Just eight minutes before Karen enters the bedroom. She stands at the footboard of their king bed, upholstered in beige, with her arms crossed and she glares at him. With the commotion around Yvie’s wounded head this morning, there hasn’t been time for her to express the full range of her anger.

  He tries to sit up, but his head is shot through with pain. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. Adam was being a dick. No way for me to get out of it.”

  “You couldn’t come home after? You had to go out?”

  “I did come home. Just came home a little late.”

  “It’s embarrassing for me when my parents are here and you don’t come home.”

  The band of light shining through the skylight is killing him. “But I wouldn’t have been home before nine anyway. Your parents go to bed at nine.”

  “But I don’t. I was waiting for you.”

  Why is a bedroom skylight a good idea? “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  “I had news, you know. Good news.” She kneels on the ottoman at the foot of the bed and shimmies her shoulders at him. “An offer came in on Elliott and Louise’s place yesterday.”

  Yannick sits up all the way, leaning against the heavily padded headboard. “I thought the showing was a disaster? The weed stink, and the …”

  “Yeah, but this guy wants to tear it down,” She studies her fingernails. The women—Yvie included—have manicure appointments today. “He’s been flipping houses all around the neighbourhood. Russian guy.”

  “Lou’s okay with a teardown?”

  Karen rips her attention away from her nails to look at him. “You mean Lou and Elliott?”

  “Yeah, of course that’s what I mean.”

  “The guy came in at ask. Wanted to forestall the bidding war.”

  “And Lou … and Elliott accepted?”

  “Didn’t I just say that? I thought we could push the Russian higher … he really wanted the lot. But they wanted to take it.”

  “Huh.”

  “That’s it? ‘Huh’?” She drops onto her hip with a pout. “This is a big commission. It should open some doors for me in Don Mills.”

  This hangover is brutal. His stomach feels poisoned. “Yeah, yeah, that’s great, sweetheart. Really great.”

  “I wish they’d have let me push the Russian. But they want to sell fast and get out.” She leans onto the mattress, her head stretching toward him, conspiratorial. “I think they’re separating,” she half-whispers.

  “What?”

  “Separating,” she repeats, biting her lip as she nods. Then she gets up and wanders over to the vanity, peeling off her grey cardigan for a late-morning wardrobe change.

  “No, that can’t be right.” But he sits up a little taller, feeling a reprieve in the searing head pain.

  “What, you think I’m making this up?” She lays the cardigan over the back of her vanity chair, then sits down and busies herself with her creams and potions.

  “No. But people don’t just … separate.”

  Karen rotates her whole body to him, staring at him with palpable scorn. “Of course they do, Yannick. They do that all the time.”

  Is that a threat? An offer?

  “And it’s not like they have kids,” Karen says. “Why wouldn’t they split if it’s not working out?”

  “Well … what did they say?” he asks, his voice lilting too close to cheerful. Not that there’s any reason for cheer, for any feeling at all. This is it for him—Karen, the kid—he made a promise.

  “Elliott talked to me about buying a condo downtown,” Karen says, leaning toward the mirror, inspecting something on her chin. “Bachelor-size. Maybe a loft—with space for his work. He’s very talented, you know? We’re lucky to get him for tomorrow.”

  “And Lou? What did Lou say?”

  Karen turns her head to look at him, for just a moment, before it’s back to the mirror, to her endlessly interesting chin. “This could work out well for me actually. Sales-wise. Louise will have to live somewhere. I’ll find her something. Not that she’s my ideal client. No offence to her or anything. She’s just … well, you know how she is. But a commission is a commission.”

  How is Lou going to live if she and Elliott split? She’ll make a little off the house, but not enough for a life. Not without a job. Or help. Even with a down payment, she won’t qualify for a good mortgage on batting cage wages.

  “What else did they say? Did they say why?”

  “Jesus, what’s the matter with you? Since when are you such a gossip? I wish you were this interested in the fact that I sold the house.”

  “I am. It’s great. I said it was great.”

  “What do you care what they do anyway?” Karen is standing up again, finally finished with her chin.

  “I’m just … surprised.”

  “You should’ve come home last night, Yannick. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.” Her tone sharpens; she’s getting ready to lay into him again. His headache flares back to life, shattering this momentary relief.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “And I don’t understand this Yvie thing,” she says, unbuttoning her pants. “What was she even doing up?”

  “I don’t know. She couldn’t sleep.”

  “But weren’t you watching her?” She steps out of the pants, folds them neatly and drapes them over the back of the chair, on top of the cardigan.

  “She slipped. She was in her damn socks.”
/>   Karen closes the blinds. Good. It helps his headache.

  “It happened fast, Karen.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “No. I mean … I’d had a couple. But that had nothing to do with it. She just slipped.”

  Now she slides off her underwear and climbs into the bed beside him.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “What do you mean? Having sex.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m ovulating tomorrow, Yannick. You know that. We should’ve had sex last night too. But you didn’t come home.”

  “But … we’re fighting.”

  “We can do that later. Come on, this is our month.”

  What can he do? He digs deep. He digs real deep, and despite the pounding headache and the in-laws downstairs and his complete lack of desire, he delivers. He pounds into her, hoping she really does get pregnant, just so they can stop having sex for a while.

  13

  A SECOND CHURCH service in as many months—a bad stretch for Yannick. And today’s service is even worse than the last. Yvie’s been squirming beside him throughout the whole of the mass, crawling onto and off his lap, favouring him over her mother. That is not how it usually goes.

  After an eternity of rising, kneeling, sitting, praying, the family are at last called up to the baptismal trough, for the cleansing of the kid’s soul. Yannick stands before the gathered mass of people, Yvie clinging to his leg. To his left—centre stage—is Karen. On her other side stand the kid’s new godparents: Grampa Joe and some cousin of Karen’s whom nobody much sees or likes.

  Joly was Yannick’s obvious choice for godmother. When he surrendered to this baptism, he thought at least there might be something in it for Joly: she could be honoured as a godparent. But then Karen and Adele explained that … well, the thing is, see … it’s just … well … only a baptized Christian gets to act as godparent. So Joly was out. Even though she’s already the godparent as far as he’s concerned, already named guardian in their will, already their executor, already a daily presence in the kid’s life. But she’s excluded from this ceremony, relegated instead to spectator seating, while this nobody cousin stands beside him to take on the role.